Hands
by CreativeChilde
Summary: George, left to himself, would rather drink away the grief of the loss of his twin, Fred. Its a good thing that he isn't left alone! Yaoi, Georgexsurprise! M for language


**Disclaimer: **I don't own harry potter or the universe I just dabble in it!

**Warnings: **Ambiguousness, postwar, alcohol consumption and George's weird thoughts about another man's hands. M for language!

**Pairings: **George/-you'll-find-out-later-gaspors! hint Drarry, Ron/Herm

**Misc: **It's a little strange I suppose, but really, what did you expect from me? And the freaking title is Hand Sex after all!

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**Hand Sex**

He was determinedly drinking himself into a stupor. He refused to look up at anyone in who walked by. He scowled down at his firewhiskey and held the glass in fiercely clenched hands. He refused to think about his mum or the war or his family or his shop or _anything_. He drummed the toe of his shoe on the leg of the table to his right and away from him, slightly shaking the whole table and letting ripples appear in the drink. He refused to sob miserably and refused to do anything other than drink until he was so fucking plastered he wouldn't wake up for twelve hours.

And then only with a headache the size of Britain.

Hazel eyes wavered against his wishes, though, as he took another deep drink. The glass was cool on his lips, even as the liquid burned a familiar path down his throat. The ice pressed against his lips and he let it slide in. Setting the cup down, he crunched the ice and stared down at the empty glass.

Pale fingers removed it and put another filled glass in his hand.

His neck twitched, to look up and register the face of the waitress, but he refused this too. He would not notice anyone right now. He would not notice anything again until he wanted to, damn it all.

The chair beside him scraped as it was pulled out and someone sat themselves beside him. He stared at his drink and slowly raised it to his lips. Closing his eyes he drank again, feeling his world fuzz and blackened on the edges.

He set down the cup and sighed softly.

Opening his eyes, suddenly there was another hand in the range of his gaze. Pale and long fingered, curled around the base of a wine-glass, slowly swirling the red liquid inside the crystal. He almost looked up.

But then he remembered not to notice, not to care.

Another drink was given to him after he finished this one. As he finished it, his world shifted slightly to the left and blurred. He realized his head was on the table and he could see the dark form next to him at the table. That pale hand, holding such expensive crystal…

He closed his eyes and told himself not to feel.

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He'd gotten home that night, somehow, for he awoke in his own bed. Not that it mattered if he go home or not, because the night after that he was in the bar again, to begin his evening stupor.

He was more attentive while with his first two glasses and he dared to glance around for a sight of pale hands and a wine glass. Seeing no one, though, he soon entered his world of a burning throat and cold lips as he drank and drank some more.

When those pale hands came again, he was hardly awake. One of them snaked out to touch his knuckles, briefly, and he'd leaned down against the table. He felt like he was getting closer to see the hand, but his eyes drooped and he ended up asleep again.

But even as he drifted into that welcomed darkness, he felt the brush of soft fingertips on his knuckles.

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He stared at the glass in his hand. It was a something new to him. Once, it had just been a tool to remove the memories that killed his soul and ripped his heart by burning his throat and smashing his brains to bits. However, now this drink was a paradox. If he wanted to see those beautiful pale hands and that perfect crystal cup, he had to drink many of these, but if he didn't…

If he didn't drink, then he wouldn't see the hands.

They wouldn't touch his knuckles or caress his wrists. They wouldn't turn his hand and press it top down to trail the lines of his palms. They wouldn't mesh and hold his so firmly and so tenderly. They wouldn't touch his hands in the way that made him think they were creatures making passionate and love-driven sex on the table.

He shook his head to dislodge that thought. It was ridiculous. Hands could not make love, not like people or animals could. They were just body parts.

They trembled as they lifted the glass. The ice tinkled softly and before it touched his lips, the top was covered with a blessed pale hand.

He stared at it, sensing the body it was attached to standing so close to him. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to that hand, perhaps, if hands could not make love alone, he could make love to this hand.

When he pulled back, he put down the cup and found the pale hands pulling on his arm, demanding him to rise to his feet. He did so. Not daring to look up into the face whoever had decided to touch him this way, he let himself be led outside into the frigid February night by those hands.

He let the owner of those hands Apparate them into his room. He refused to think about how the owner could get past his wards. He refused to admit he had not put any on the doors for a long time. He refused to feel like he would welcome death or pain or anymore loss that could befall him because of his carelessness.

He closed his eyes when those hands tugged impatiently at his robe. He let himself be pushed back onto his bed. He relaxed his feet so his shoes and socks came off easily. He lay back and thought nothing of the fact that he was with a stranger.

Or was it really a stranger? After all, their hands had made love…

He expected, however, to be stripped to the nude and played with. It was what he thought someone from a bar would take someone else home for. Hand sex was okay on a table, but on a bed you did full body sex. Right?

_Of course._

So he was surprised when there was a rustle of cloth and a body joined him in the bed, but was as nearly-fully clothed as he was. The man beside him, he knew it was a man because his chest was firm and flat, sat up against the headboard of his bed and pulled him into his lap, cradled his head against that toned chest and stroked his unruly hair.

The magical-non-stranger fingers tickled past his ear to his neck and then ran swiftly down his arms to his fingers. They meshed and he could feel the warmth of the other hands grow. He smiled. He allowed himself that.

He breathed in the smell of wine and leather and power from the man as their hands touched as they hadn't in the bar. He felt his cheeks flushing and heard his strangled gasps as their hands had sex.

_It was the only way he could explain it! The only words that fit! It sounded silly, yes, but it also sounded right! So incredibly right!_

As his arms and the strange non-stranger's arms were wrapped around his body, he wept. He turned his face to that silk black shirt and sobbed. It hurt to cry. It also hurt to move and to breathe and to wake up every morning, but he'd been doing all of that before so he could do this. Besides, sometimes hurting was good.

Except for hand sex. When that hurt it was not good.

Tears pushed him to exhaustion and he welcomed the darkness of dreamless sleep.

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He awoke alone and thought he would die when he realized this. He didn't want to move out of his bed. He didn't want to eat. He didn't want to breathe anymore. But he opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing his head.

His fingers tingled, and he stared at his hands. They'd had sex. They were no longer virgins. They stared up him, accusing him, _why hadn't he done what they did?_ They wanted to move now. They wanted to do things, to feel things. They wanted those pale hands and they wanted to touch.

He stripped down his clothes from before and rummaged through his closet for something to wear. Muggle dark jeans and a t-shirt worked. They always worked.

He moved to leave, to find something to eat in his kitchen--

_Maybe mum sent someone by with a bite to eat…_

--and stopped when he saw the note tacked to the door. Swirling letters waited on parchment, hugging close to each other to make it easier for him to read them as words; strung together to tell him amazing things. He took down the paper and read it. He read it again. Then he said it out loud as he read it a third time, to make sure those words were real.

_Shall we meet again tonight at the bar? I will come for you. I think you mean the world to me. I think I need you to live._

Such a pleasant beginning, so informal…and then…

There were tears in his eyes. He hugged it to his chest and fell to his knees. He felt the truth burning in his body. He needed those hands, that body… he needed this unknown non-stranger. He _needed_ him.

The door opened to his bedroom after a hesitant knock. His sister stood there, shocked to see him kneeling and weeping on the floor. She helped him up, but he couldn't feel her. He didn't want her there to ruin his moment with his hand-lover.

She made him breakfast, talking swiftly about him drinking. Mum was worried about him. Father was concerned. Ron wanted to come see him… the same words over and over. He stared down into his glass of juice and wished it was firewhiskey, if it was, he would be at the bar and there would be those pale hands again.

He looked up as his sister sat at the chair beside him. She was growing impatient and serious. She was telling him to get on with his life because Fred would not want him to be like this. Fred's name hurt and he recoiled from her to stare at his hands again.

Staring at them, he could not hear the words she spoke, only the disappointed and upset tone. Suddenly it stopped and then she spoke again, curling her voice to form a question.

Without looking up he shook his head. No no no no no no no the answer to every question ever in the whole wide world was no.

She sighed. She relaxed. Lightly she spoke now until she finally left him.

When she finally left, he stared at the clock on the wall for a long time. It didn't move. Its face stared right back at him. He scowled and waited for it. Then he remembered it was dead. A dead clock. Dead time… Dead broth---

He decided to leave the house.

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He couldn't drink. He couldn't even _try_ to drink. His throat was dry. His hands were shaking. He couldn't open his mouth. He covered his face and folded over on the table. His company at the bar was his brother and brother's friend. The hero of the war had not saved _his_ brother.

But he knew that Harry couldn't save everyone…

But they were talking about the war. They were drunk, more drunk than he because he spent more time looking at hands than drinking. They were here, but would that mean his pale hands would stay away?

He wanted them to shut up and go away. He wanted to be left alone until it was time to go with his hand-lover. His body shook as a hand gripped him by the shoulder and tried to move him.

He resisted and then pulled away, sitting up and furious. Green and blue eyes stared at him in shock as he snarled and stood to get away. The chair fell out from behind him. He was shouting, shouting something about quiet and pain and _being left the fuck alone!_

Then there were the hands, one holding the wine and setting it down on the table. The men at the table stood and exclaimed loudly, but he only saw those pale hands gesturing to him, beckoning him. He went to them without a thought. He took them and left with their owner, without a look back in regard for the shouts of his friend and family.

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It was morning, he woke, fists curled around black silk and tears dried on his cheeks. The dawn was pushing through the fog outside and glaring at him in the eyes. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, burrowing it deeper into the black silk.

The body stirred beside him, a muffled sigh and half a word.

He kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to give up this moment for anything. Not for his family. Not for his memories. Not for his drinking. Not for his work. Not for anything in the whole world. He would stay right here. Right here in the arms of the man whose hands had made love to his own.

The body stirred again and there was a true word that came out. In fact, there were three. "Are you awake?"

NO! He shook his head. The answer is always no no no no no no no! A soft chuckle from the man, and a soft touch of hand to his red hair and he wanted to cry again. He started to speak, softly and in a wavering tone, but his words kept pouring out. There was pain in him, in his heart and his mind. Pain and sorrow and anger. There was hate there too; biting him to pieces and spitting him out so depression could swallow him. He wanted to die and he wanted to sleep and he didn't want to _do_ anything anymore. He hated himself and everyone else.

These words kept pouring out, over and over and over again until his mouth was covered with soft lips of that man who'd loved his hands. He was stunned into silence and stared up into that face for the first time as the man pulled away.

Chiseled features, eyes as liquid and as gray as mercury, soft flaxen hair and pale snow skin looked down at him. There was understanding in that face; understanding and empathy.

The man whispered, "Good morning George."

His eyes widened as he recognized that voice, coming from those supple lips and formed in the mind behind those silver eyes. This was a Malfoy. Not only that, but this was _Lucius Malfoy_. He opened his mouth, choked on air, closed it again and shook his head.

Sadness dripped into those eyes like water from thawing icicles. Lucius kissed his forehead and then closed his eyes. Suddenly, it didn't matter who held him. With a cry, he gripped that silken shirt with frenzy and put his lips to those cool and dry one just three inches away.

As he kissed-no- as he _ate_ Lucius's lips and sucked from his mouth, his world changed. That fog, that black mist that seemed to always be on the edge of his world shuddered as if in pain and broke apart like a torn cobweb. Lucius just as furiously kissed him, pushing him to his back and looming over him like a hungry vampire.

His blonde hair fell down from his shoulders and curtained their faces from the world. George dug a hand into the roots and held Lucius firmly against his mouth. His other hand curled around Lucius's collar, popping fancy buttons loose from the top of his silken shirt.

Lucius held his head still with a palm by his jaw and fingers wrapped around the back of his head. His other hand dug deep into the sheets, twisting and gnarling the fabric around his perfect fingers.

Lucius shifted, legs on either side of George's left, pressing down and pulling back with his body, only to push down again. George gasped out and whimpered into that desperate kiss. Their despair broke down the sophistication of their kiss and it became wet and inexperienced; all teeth and lips and too much saliva.

He didn't even hear the banging on the door, but there _must_ have been some because suddenly the door exploded inwards and split right down the middle. Lucius jerked back a little, but George's hand only let him move an inch away.

Then there was a flash of color and Lucius gasped and cried out on top of him, his whole body shuddering in pain. His aluminum eyes opened and then rolled back in his head as he slumped forward.

Suddenly, George was reliving it. He was reliving Fred's death. Fred clutched to his chest, breath soft on his neck and heart beat weak under his fingers. No strength in that body he held so tightly, so frantically.

Even with his eyes wildly staring at the blonde hair and pale face, he could see freckles and red curls imposed on it… "Fffrr…" He stopped. No. This wasn't Fred. Fred was already dead. This was someone else.

A long, low, mournful moan escaped his lips as he shuddered and clutched the blonde tightly to his chest, "Luuuciuss!"

Though this flashback and this reaction took forever in George's mind, however, his refreshed, un-hazed mind realized it took much less time for everyone else. Sitting up rapidly, clutching Lucius to his chest, he cast accusing hazel eyes at the intruders.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing!" It was more of a accusing shout than any type of real question.

That was obviously not the reaction they were expecting.

But then, to be fair, George had not expected them to feel the need to come in and hex his …er…what was Lucius to him?

"George!" Ginny ran forward and to pull Lucius off of George.

"Ginny, I swear, if you touch Lucius at all you'll be getting the stench of dung bombs out of your hair for _weeks_ when I'm done!" George snapped before she had taken three steps.

She immediately stepped back, her face open with her shock. "George?"

He slid out from under Lucius and, somehow, the movement woke the man. He winced and groaned but George got out from under him so he could kneel beside him. He pulled the back of Lucius's silk shirt, which was now totally ruined, up, and looked at the injury. Seething, he turned to stare at his intruders.

Other than Ginny, Hermione, Ron, Harry and Draco stood at the doorway, or just inside it. All the males had their wands out and pointed to the bed. Hermione's was down at her side and her face watched George in a very calculating way.

"Who cast the hex." George snarled. Next to Lucius, he was the oldest one in the room, he was also the angriest and probably the most volatile. "Who cast the hex on Lucius!"

Ron grit his teeth and looked down. Harry scowled but did not look away. Draco growled and stepped forward. "He deserved it."

George, whose hand was near Lucius's mouth, felt his breathing falter and then a heavy sigh send his breath ripple around his hand. Silently summoning his wand, George pointed it at Draco and said too softly, "Do you know how many modified spells I know that could prevent you from ever being able to enjoy yourself ever again? Do you want to know?" He was smiling. In fact, he was grinning like a wild cat, his hazel eyes more death green than brown.

Draco wavered for a moment and then Harry stepped in front of him. "George don't even think about it." Harry didn't want to do this, it was clear in his eyes, but in choosing George over Draco, he would choose Draco.

However, before anything could go any farther downhill, Hermione snapped in that tone that bode no argument, "Harry, Ron, Draco, put your wands away. You too George. No one will hex anyone else. Boys, go out of the room, Ginny, you stay at the door in case I need you. I'm going to heal Mr. Malfoy's injury."

Her companions gaped at her as she walked calmly over to the bed. Kneeling on the other side of Lucius she looked up at George and smiled. "I'm glad to see you've got some feeling back, George."

George looked down at Lucius, after putting his wand away, and touched the man's cheek. Ginny ushered the others out of the room and stood guard there. George could hear them bickering but ignored it.

He'd gotten pretty good at that since the war.

Hermione murmured healing spells that fixed Lucius back up neatly. Then, smiling at George she said, "Congratulations, George. I'm happy for you."

George blushed, "W-what?"

"Smart girl." Lucius huffed, opening his eyes a sliver. He pushed himself up with a slight wince and regarded her with cool gray eyes. "No wonder you got better grades than Draco."

She smiled at him. "Thank you Mr. Malfoy."

George gave a little cry and hugged Lucius tightly. With no consideration to Hermione, he kissed the man. Lucius happily kissed him right back. Hermione gave a little giggle and got off the bed. Hurrying out of the room she called over her shoulder, "You two have some explaining to do later!" then she pushed Ginny from the doorway, repaired and replaced the door and cast silencing and locking charms on it with a giggle. Just in time too…

Ginny stared at her wide eyes and a blush on her cheeks. "H-hermione ar-are they?"

Hermione led Ginny away and said, "I will have to introduce you into something I like to call a slice of heaven. Some like to call it slash pairings or yaoi. Come and I'll show you its wonders..."

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George lay in Lucius's arms, his bare back against Lucius's chest. The man's soft breath fluttered on his neck and jaw and his pale fingers meshed with George's on the pillow beside his head.

Lucius was barely awake, George could tell from his slow breaths and slower movements, but their hands…

Gently rolling together, pulling apart and rubbing, like two mad lovers, desirous of nothing but each other… Fingertips running down knuckles to palm around the wrist and up the back like kisses on the body. Lucius's hands were so warm, unlike the chill of his lips, and warmed George's fingers easily. Blood pulsed through his wrist and through his veins and thudded in his hands like another heart beat.

After a fashion, their hands stopped moving as Lucius fell asleep and George quickly followed him. Smiling down at their tangled hands and body, George thought that hand sex was a good thing to do before going to sleep.

Muffled in his ear, in response to his unintentionally spoken words, Lucius mumbled, "Of course." George smiled and read deeper into those two words than he probably should have. But he was tired and he wouldn't remember them anyway…

_Of course it is, my love.

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**End?**

**If you **want more from me, ask me. Review please, I like to know a specific part that you enjoyed/loathed whatever.

CC


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